


These Tender Sacrifices.

by morwrach



Series: A Prowl of Wampuses [4]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: (In my headcanon Grindelwald is played by Mads Mikkelsen), A hint of past Graves x Theseus Scamander if you look for it., A tiny bit of fluff, A whole lotta love and devotion, Angst, Domestic setting., Graves' grumpy owl, Happy ending., Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mention of non-graphic injury, Mutual recovery struggles, Newt is everyone's penpal, Post-canon fix-it (of sorts!), Protective!Percival Graves, The obscurus is depression and anxiety in physical form, Wampus tattoo!, obscurial!credence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 05:03:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10914891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morwrach/pseuds/morwrach
Summary: The obscurus refuses to be suppressed. Burning sage won’t banish it, and planting rowan trees won’t keep it from coming near. Libations of milk and wine won’t sate its appetite, and golden words of worship won’t appease it. When that dark tempest comes to call, Graves holds Credence tightly in the safe haven of his arms. But like an ancient deity, the obscurus only speaks the language of bloodshed and destruction.A look at day-to-day life with an obscurus.





	These Tender Sacrifices.

It’s one of those days when Credence doesn’t feel quite real, like a real person. Under his pale unblemished skin, his body feels like one big bruise, aching earnestly, dully, constantly. Lately, in the soft bright light of springtime, he’d almost begun to forget that he felt like this, feels like this – to forget the dreary, everyday-ness of the ache. It’s an ache like the pain after a beating, but with none of the endorphins or euphoria: those reassurances of a body alive. He wants to cry, and he can sense the inner flood crashing and breaking against him, but for once the tears don’t come. He feels like one of the vessels of potion in Jenkyns and Broughton’s – as bitter as bile, as viscous as blood, stagnant water unmoving.  
  
  
Looking around Mr Graves’ apartment, Credence wonders dully if he’s imagined it all. Under hesitant fingertips, he can feel the reality of the place. Pressing his cheek into the bedroom pillows he can smell Mr Graves’ sweat and cologne, and his chest jerks - a fitful yearning. He longs for the tender firm touch, the pressure of his hands, for Percy - solid, unmoving, and reliable. How quickly Graves has replaced God in his affections.  
  
  
He pulls the blanket up around his cheeks until only his eyes and the cold tip of his nose are exposed between soft hair and soft blanket. He takes deep breaths and feels the air shudder on the exhale, rattling though his chest like the winds howling in winter. The pressure in his head weighs down on him, but he isn’t tired. He draws the blanket more tightly around him, closes his eyes, and imagines that it’s Mr Graves’ arms, but he can’t get the sensation right. He tries to ground himself in his body like he’s practiced, to feel the tension in his joints and the control in his hands; but he feels like he’s floating above himself, incorporeal and unreal. Inhuman.  
  
  
He barely notices the blue-black wisps which begin to rise off him like campfire kindling catching a spark.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Credence is barely lucid when Graves protectively gathers the huddled bundle of blanket and body into his arms. Vacant, milky eyes look back at him as he gently brushes the locks of black hair out of his lover’s cold face. He smiles at Graves timidly, a familiar expression of drained exhaustion laced through with guilt. Something wrenches painfully in Graves’ heart to see him look so pitiable and so weak when he has lately grown so much in confidence. He cradles Credence’s jaw and presses a firm kiss to his forehead but the gesture of affection seems to offend the obscurus, and the hard edges of Credence begin to blur and shake immediately. His whole body begins to shudder, and then to spasm, his shoulder connecting with Graves’ chin with a dull thud. A flurry of black scraps begin to break away from Credence’s body, peppering the air around them like the portentous ash before a volcanic eruption.  
  
  
“Percy!” Credence croaks out, gripping weakly at Graves with chilly fingers.

 _  
“Percy, Percy!_ ” he intones with increasing desperation, clutching at the sides of his head as if to keep the obscurus in. It’s all Graves can do to stroke the soft hair, to cultivate a relaxed tone to his voice and say _“Hush now, hush”_ even as his mind writhes with panic. A trail of obscurial matter floods out of Credence’s open mouth like thick dark blood, and floats into the air whilst another pours from his ear like a pan of water boiling over. Graves has witnessed the transformation countless times now, and yet its similarity to internal bleeding never fails to turn his stomach. A hot anger boils in his guts to think that he cannot take Credence to a hospital. There’s not a medi-wizard in the world who would know how to treat Credence, and besides, MACUSA cannot find out that the obscurus still resists suppression.  
  
  
As if on cue, the obscurus blossoms out of Credence’s chest, a huge inky mass thrumming with raw unfettered power. Graves’ breath catches in his throat. It’s hardly the first time he’s seen it and yet the roiling cloud of dark, shining matter filling most of the sitting room is majestic and captivating – a force that somehow demands worship. He’s momentarily entranced by the sheer power of the thing, of the young man he holds in his arms.  
  
  
He's jerked out of his reverie as soon as the obscurial cloud tries to pull free from his grip, attempting to wrestle control of Credence’s body. It’s a familiar dance – push, pull, cloud to body to cloud again with nothing to do but hold on and wait for the outburst to pass. Without an anchor, there’s a risk the obscurus could rip Credence free of himself again and set him loose on New York. Considering this outcome, Graves finds he cares far less about the potential damage to New York and far more about the harm to Credence’s wellbeing. Upon joining MACUSA, he’d vowed _“to serve and protect”_ American wizarding society, and he’s dedicated decades of his life to doing just that. _And now?_ he muses to himself, looking down at the shivering creature nestled against his chest, _now how I’d willingly revoke that oath, and instead protect and serve Credence until all my strength gives out.  
  
  
_ The young man is billowing like steam, held fast in Graves’ arms, blurs of his fine features visible amongst the pulsing smoke. Anchored by his hold, the darkness thrashes against Graves like wild waves crashing against a rocky promontory, wearing him down by slow steady increments. He knows how to take a beating silently, cathartically: years of being an auror have taught him that much. And yet - the obscurus is an unpredictable adversary. Its punches aren’t regular and it attacks from many angles simultaneously, changing and reforming restlessly. There’s no strategy to its movements which Graves can detect or anticipate. The inky tendrils pounce with feral rage, scratching and clawing and ripping at his skin, drawing blood. His muscles itch to retaliate, but fighting back isn’t an option when the dearest thing in the world to him is trapped inside the dark cloud like a hostage. His desire not to hurt Credence is stronger than his fear of bodily harm. He can weather the storm to shelter him from any injury, he reassures himself. It’s the least he can do. It’s the only thing he can do.  
  
  
There’s a rustling and cracking noise coming from somewhere, and Graves lifts his attention from the body in his arms to search out the source. Levitating in mid-air, propelled by the invisible force of the obscurus, are Credence’s gifts from Newt. Empty speckled eggshells, a shower of glistening scales, tufts of shed fur, and ghostlike shed reptile skins float in an arc, ejected from their cardboard specimen boxes. They hover motionless, a moment of calm before the inevitable outburst of tearing and smashing. He pulls a hand away from holding Credence to steady the floating treasure trove and return them to their boxes on the windowsill, their little compartments of tissue paper and cotton wool. The effort of holding the packing boxes in place whilst keeping up his defences is sapping his strength. He can feel the bounds of his power straining from dividing his focus. In auror training, (much like no-maj fire safety) the first lesson is to always revoke material possessions to protect the body – but he thinks of Credence’s delight as he strokes the tuft of niffler pelt, the studious furrow of his brow as he compares object to diagram – and he lets his defences weaken just a little, just enough.  
  
  
The obscurial tendrils coil about him silently. They tighten themselves with a constricting grip around the arm encompassing Credence’s waist and wrench at his hold with diligent determination. He hears the dull cracking noise before he feels it. A cold electric chill washes through his body, turning to a nauseous clenching in his guts. _It’s fractured my arm,_ Graves thinks distantly, _the fucking thing has fractured my arm.  
  
  
_ The obscurus seems to lose momentum after scoring a big hit, dwindling away until there’s nothing left but a trickle of glossy matter seeping back into Credence’s open mouth. The whiteness recedes from his eyes, leaving his gaze unfocused and chillingly emotionless. He looks through Graves as if he’s invisble. The sofa is rent apart with great gashes, exposing its stuffing, and ripped tatters of the blanket hang off Credence, a mockery of the thing inside him, now hidden away.  
  
  
Graves carries Credence’s limp half-conscious body to bed mostly by magic and lies him down on top of the sheets. His skin is blanched and clammy, damp with cold sweat. Little tendrils of his dark hair are stuck to his forehead, and his eyes flutter incessantly back and forth behind his eyelids. He looks so sickly that Graves can’t bear to look at him, and also can’t bear to leave him, but the insistent pain in the arm cradled to his chest tears him away.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Graves has always been better at breaking things than mending them. Skill at charms had come easily, as had transfiguration. Even nurturing magical plants and their idiosyncrasies had become second nature to him by his final year at school, but his mending and healing spells remained just as clumsy and unwieldy as they had been in first year. His Professor had said something about him “ _lacking calm and peace of mind_ ” which he had not taken kindly to, preferring to persevere at _reparo_ with brute force. He hadn’t improved with time. During auror training, the examiner had clapped a reassuring hand on Percival’s shoulder and muttered conspiratorially “ _As long as you can get back in one piece, the medical team can put you back together_.” Examining his mangled forearm, Graves wishes he’d persevered a bit harder at healing spells instead of stopping after he’d mastered the basics. He scours his memory for the spell to reset a bone, but he can’t remember it for the life of him. He sighs - Credence would know the spell immediately. _Episkey_ heals the numerous smaller cuts, but it’s no use on his throbbing arm. He considers summoning one of MACUSA’s many talented mediwitches, someone trustworthy – Wigney or Lovibond – but no, it’s too risky. They’d only ask questions.  
  
  
With shaking hands, he rifles through the bathroom cabinets for restorative potions, pulling out the short squat bottle of _Skele-Gro_ with its grinning skull stopper, and the slender purple bottle of _Rev-Ivory_ , a tonic for bone strength. Breathing heavily, he carries both to the kitchen and deposits a generous helping of each into a tumbler. It froths in an unsettlingly digestive manner, giving off a foul odour. Graves mixes the biggest teaspoonful of honey that he can muster into the smoking mixture, but he still gags when he drinks the potion. It burns all the way down his throat, and then the healing begins, a prickling itching just under the skin. He chases the potion with a swig of whisky, but even the sear of spirits cannot dispel the trademark taste of rotten eggs. It’s a slow process, but eventually he can feel the fractures begin to knit back together, the feeling of healing like a thousand little splinters, the sharp shocks of simultaneous papercuts. _Praise morrigan - it’s working._ Graves breathes a shaky sigh of relief.  
  
  
He washes off the blood in the shower, and along with it his fear and his anger until there’s nothing left but tiredness. His muscles ache as if he’s just chased a suspect. There’s no strength left in him. There’s no fight left in him. Resting his forehead against the cold tiles, Graves lets the scalding water pummel his fresh bruises and sear into his recently healed cuts. The soap moves of its own accord, scrubbing away the sweat and tears and grease and blood. Towelling off, he looks for his wampus tattoo. He finds his arm empty, which might’ve been expected considering that its normal prowling territory has been disrupted by the obscurus’ attack. He eventually finds it nestled in the thicket of his chest hair, curled up protectively over his heart with its tail swishing aggressively back and forth. _Credence would love to see it here_ , he thinks, and winces. The wampus obstinately refuses to budge when he gets dressed. _Guarding my heart from Credence_ , he thinks, morosely.  
  
  
Shuffling with leaden feet into his study, Graves puts on his reading glasses, and ensconces himself behind his writing desk. The apartment is completely silent except for the ticking of the miniature Magical Threat Exposure clock on his desk. Even Agamemnon, Graves’ cantankerous old owl, is sound asleep on his perch next to the window. Pulling out letter paper and forgoing a quill for the ease of a fountain pen, Graves dashes off a letter to the younger Scamander. He keeps the content factual and scientific – the attack lasted just over forty-five minutes, nearby objects experienced weightlessness, the redness within the cloud is less like smoke and more like mucus membrane…  
  
  
_“Your hypothesis is proving accurate,”_ he writes, _“Each new attack is shorter than the last but the obscurus is becoming more violent and unpredictable with each one.”_ _By comparison,_ he doesn’t write, _Credence is becoming gentler and more loving by the day.  
  
  
_ He pauses to consider his phrasing and adds the P.S. in messy script, feigning an afterthought. _“Whilst it crosses my mind, let me remind you that you still haven’t illuminated me as to the circumstances surrounding the death of the Sudanese obscurial. I am curious to know whether the manner of her death was sudden and unprecedented, like a failure of the heart or preceded by a long sickness?”  
  
  
_ He addresses it, _“Newton Scamander, care of Mr. Theseus Scamander”_ (Merlin knows where the young scamp is at the moment, probably neck deep in a tropical swamp somewhere…best to send it to someone reliable), _Ministry For Magic, London, England.”  
  
  
_ He nudges Agamemnon awake with a stroke of his knuckles across his feathered head, crumpling the letter paper enticingly. The owl’s tufty ears prick up at the promise of a night-time flight. He looks at the envelope in his owner’s hand with wide eager eyes.  
  
  
_“Central Post Owlery”_ Graves states, wearily.  
  
  
Agamemnon gives Graves a nip of his beak before taking the letter firmly in his claws. Yawning, he opens the window and pushes the owl towards it, muttering _“Go on, you old bastard.”_ Fixing him with a glower, Agamemnon takes off into the starless night. The night air is cold against Graves’ face as he follows the path of that little black shadow against the buildings until it dwindles into nothing.  
  
  
Drained and aching, he collapses into the reassuringly familiar armchair and slips into an uneasy sleep racked with cloying dreams. Graves’ night terrors are always half-fantasy, half-memory, a series of successive sluggish visions which coalesce hazily before melting away. It starts innocently enough. He’s running the school cross-country race, and he’s almost leading the pack. Cold air whips past his ears, ruffling his hair. Mount Greylock is even more beautiful than he remembered, burnished gold and orange with the colours of fall. There’s a thrill in his muscles as he overtakes a girl from Horned Serpent, and a drumbeat in his heart as he dodges another student and plunges into the forest…but then he can’t seem to remember the path that he ran every week for four years. A wet ghostlike mist rises up around him, weaving through the pine trees, and clinging damply to his legs and the back of his neck.  
  
  
The forest floor softens beneath his feet, and he finds himself in a trench again. A shell whizzes overhead, screaming through the starless night sky. His nose fills with the bitter tang of metal and the lingering scents of urine and old sweat. Absorbed in the details of the past, he stares at the patch on his coat bearing the insignia of his division, stitched in bright new thread. A ball of flame lands a metre away, and immediately people are barging past him, coughing and spluttering. He realises can’t find his wand, and wandless commands don’t seem to work. Somewhere far off he can hear Theseus’ voice, strong and commanding - but he can’t see him and he can’t reach him. His shoes sink into the mud and a cloud of smoke blooms across his vision. Theseus’ voice goes silent in a hail of gunfire.  
  
  
Grindelwald’s eyes are like grey river pebbles, completely impassive as they trace over Graves’ battered body. The dark wizard stretches, smooths his robes as if he has all the time in the world. He twiddles his long, spindly wand in one elegant hand playfully, and speaks warmly, conversationally. _“We are both men who have wizardkind’s best interests at heart, Percival – and yet you’re being so uncooperative.”_ He talks as if Graves has committed some minor faux-pas, rather than resisting him with body and mind. _“Fortunately, your”_ he pauses, and his thin lips quirk into a smile _“friend Credence is terribly eager to please.”  
  
  
_ ***  
  
  
The smell of sizzling bacon and bubbling coffee herald the start of a new day. In little eddies, their aromas waft into the sitting room and rouse Graves’ senses from wet mists and muddy trenches, and compact prisons with no doors. Disentangling himself from the armchair with a drowsy grunt, he lopes single-mindedly in the direction of the coffee. Reaching the kitchen, Graves recoils, temporarily blinded by the bright morning sunlight. He rakes a hand through his loose, unstyled hair, and rubs at his bleary eyes with his fists, making a disgruntled growly noise.  
  
  
A soft laugh. _“Good Morning,”_ Credence says fondly.  
  
  
_Strange_ , Graves thinks, _how such an everyday phrase can sound like the highest form of magic._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Crikey! It's taken me ages to write this fic. D: Thanks for waiting, wampus-readers!
> 
> The idea of the obscurus leaching out of Credence's mouth and nose comes from randomnessofd and organicfleshink on tumblr, who drew this gorgeous art: [Make Us Whole Again Mr Graves.](http://organicfleshink.tumblr.com/post/157318830892/make-us-whole-again-mr-graves-graves-is) Big love and thanks to both!
> 
>    
> [Find me on tumblr @nettlekettle](http://nettlekettle.tumblr.com/) My inbox/messages are always open, and I love chatting about these tragic wizard nerds! <3


End file.
